as if he were a five-year-old who’d thrown a rock through her window.
“Mrs. Boyle,” Jefferson said, gathering the reins on his simmering temper and trying for a charming smile. “I’ve just spent too many hours on a jet, then driven here from the airport in a rental car that blew a tire on the road and now—” he paused to toss a hard stare at the lowering gray sky “—I’m getting rained on. I’m happy to listen to whatever your complaints might be after you rent me a room so I can change clothes and get settled.”
“Humph.”
Her snort was caught between a snide laugh and a jolt of outrage. “Used to giving orders, aren’t you? No doubt your lackeys jump to attention when you snarl. Well, I’m no one’s lackey, boyo, and I’ve no time for the likes of you, Jefferson King.”
Lackey? He didn’t have lackeys.
“The likes of—” What the hell had happened to this place in a few short months? Had he stepped into an alternate universe? He pushed his wet hair out of his eyes, blinked the raindrops off his lashes and asked, “What did I do? I haven’t even been here in months!”
She huffed out a breath. “So you haven’t, when you should’ve been, I say. You’re a sad disappointment to me, Mister King.”
“Disappointment?” Seriously, he felt as though he needed a translator. It was as if the older woman was speaking in code. “What the hell is going on around here?”
“A decent man would already know the answer to that question.” Her features were hard as stone and her normally placid eyes were glittering. The toe of her practical black shoe tapped against the linoleum. “And I don’t appreciate you swearing at me in my own home.”
“I’m not in your home,” he pointed out, as a cold drop of rain sneaked underneath his shirt collar and rolled icily down his spine.
“And not likely to be any time soon, either.”
So, he was getting a firsthand lesson in what his film crew had been experiencing. He couldn’t understand this. When he’d been here the last time, Frances Boyle had been warm, funny, friendly. He wasn’t used to being treated with outright disrespect.
But whatever her problem was with him, he’d deal with it later. All he wanted at the moment was a room, a change of clothes and a meal. Once he was warm, dry and fed, he knew he’d be in better shape to handle not only Mrs. Boyle, but anything else that awaited him in this picturesque village.
Then he’d be ready to head off to Maura’s farmhouse to settle whatever bug she had up her—He cut that thought off abruptly and tried one last time. “Mrs. Boyle. I just need a room for a couple of days,” he said tightly.
“A shame for you as I’m full up.”
“Full? It’s not even tourist season.”
She sniffed and her voice was cold enough to drop frost on her words. “Be that as it may.”
Then she closed the door on him with a sharp crack of sound. So much for charm. Fine. He’d just stop at a B and B somewhere along the road. As he recalled, there was one not far from Maura’s farmhouse.
Still, it stung. Hardly the welcome he’d been expecting. Jefferson turned around on her porch and looked up and down the narrow Main Street of the village. It looked like a postcard, even in this miserable weather. Sidewalks were thin strips of cement that rose up and down as the road willed it. The shops were a rainbow of colors, and smoke drifted upward from chimneys to be caught by the ever-present wind. Doors were closed against the rain currently pummeling him and early-blooming flowers in pots bent with the water and wind.
Scraping one hand across his face, he stepped off the porch and headed for the Lion’s Den pub. At least there, he’d be able to get a meal and something hot to drink. Then he’d face the rest of the drive to Maura’s. As he jogged across the empty street, he told himself that Mrs. Boyle’s attitude was probably just a case of women sticking together. He already knew Maura was angry about something and the innkeeper was just showing solidarity. God knew every female he’d ever known would be willing to take the side of a fellow woman against a man no matter what the argument might be.
Jefferson stepped into the warmth of the pub and paused a moment to enjoy the glow of the fire in the hearth and the rich scents of beer and some kind of stew simmering in the kitchen. Then he nodded vaguely at a couple of men seated at a table, before taking a spot at the bar for himself. He’d barely settled himself when Michael came out of the kitchen, took a look at Jefferson and came to a sudden stop. His wide, genial face flushed dark red and his blue eyes flashed with trouble.
“We’re closed,” he said.
Jefferson muffled a groan. This he hadn’t expected at all and if he were to be honest about it, he could admit to himself that he felt a bit betrayed at the moment. He and Michael had become friends the last time he was here. And now, the look on the man’s face said he’d happily plant one of his meaty fists on Jefferson’s jaw.
“Closed?” Jefferson jerked a thumb in the direction of the two men, each sipping a freshly stacked Guinness beer. “What about them?”
“We’re not closed to them, are we?”
“So, it’s only me.”
“I didn’t say that.” Michael picked up a pristine bar rag and idly polished a bar that already shone like a dark jewel in the overhead light.
“Yeah.” Jefferson swallowed his anger because it wasn’t going to do him any good here anyway. Until he knew exactly what he was accused of, he couldn’t fight it.
He pushed off the stool, leaned both hands on the bar and met Michael’s heated stare with one of his own. “When we first met, you struck me as a fair man, Michael,” he said. “I’m sorry to be proven wrong.”
The man inhaled so sharply, his barrel chest swelled up to massive proportions. “Aye and you struck me as a man to do his duty.”
“Duty?” He threw both arms wide. “Is everyone in the village nuts all of a sudden? What’re you talking about?”
Michael slapped the bar with his palm. “What I’m talking about is you being nothing more than a rich American taking what he wants and never paying a mind to his leavings.”
Jefferson straightened up like someone had shoved a poker down the back of his shirt. He was trying to be reasonable here, but a man could only be pushed so far. “What leavings?”
“That’s not for me to say but for you to know.”
Great, he thought, disgusted. More code.
“Look, we obviously don’t know each other as well as I thought, Michael,” Jefferson told him, “so I’m going to let that insult go. But I can tell you I’ve never shirked my duty in my life—nor do I know anything about any ‘leavings’—not that I owe you any explanations.”
“Oh, on that you’re spot-on,” the big man muttered. “It’s not me you’re owin’, Jefferson King.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It’s time
